If he died today would anyone be truly sorry?
The question loomed in the shadows of his mind. Plagued him. Ate at his soul.
His mother would lament the loss of the Coverstone title to Sidney far more than the death of a son, and after the Witherspoon debacle his superiors would be just as soon rid of him. Sidney might miss him, but Alex had been absent so long the loss would hardly disrupt his cousin’s day to day routine.
And what of Charley?
How many times had he dreamed of her garbed all in black, standing beside a fresh dug grave—his grave. Would she grieve? Perhaps, but more than likely she’d be relieved to shed the bonds of unwanted marriage. In his visions a veil always covered her face, blocking the truth of her emotions from his view, but deep down… he knew the truth, and the truth terrified him.
Despair settled in his chest, a hollow empty ache. He couldn’t die that way. Alone. Without a soul on this earth to care that he was gone. He just… couldn’t.
And what had his wife and cousin been speaking about in the hall? Not how Charlotte was faring, of that Alex was certain. Planning their next romantic tryst perhaps?
Alex ground his teeth and, seething, hunched back over the horse’s withers. Appearances be damned, his career was over anyway. Soon his entire life would be up in smoke. When the debris settled Charley may be all he had left, and he’d be damned before he lost her too. Alex would woo her with every charm in his repertoire—granted he was a little rusty in the arts of seduction, but the next time his wife saw Sidney she would hardly recall the rake’s name.
A few minutes later he thundered over a picturesque stone bridge, past a sheer white field littered with brown and black herds of cows and sheep, into the sleepy village bordering the extensive Grayson lands. Curls of smoke rose lazily from a mismatched array of stone chimneys—some short, some tall, all cozy and inviting. An overwhelming sense of weariness overcame Alex. What he wouldn’t give to collapse before a hearth and sleep without a care in the world. When was the last time he’d had the luxury of being carefree? Heaven help him… he couldn’t quite remember.
The lone road wending through town stretched before him, completely deserted. Curious eyes peered from behind windowpanes and the few daring enough to brave the cold waved in greeting. Finding the magistrate was of next to no difficulty in a town so small, and Alex dismounted before the quaint cottage, absently rubbing his injured thigh—the cold never failed to aggravate the muscles. He tethered the bay gelding and strode toward the little house.
The wooden door swung open before Alex reached the first step. “Top of the morning, Major. What can I do for you this fine day?” A short, squat Irishman of middling years smiled jovially from the doorway. Wiry gray hair sprouted in patches from a balding head and sharp blue eyes sparkled behind round spectacles. The plaid vest barely covering his protruding middle completed the scene and in all the man bore striking resemblance to a leprechaun.
A hint of amusement tugged Alex’s lips. He swallowed it back and cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir. I am in search of the magistrate.”
“Then search no longer me lad, Archibald Reilly at your service.”
Alex half expected the man to click his heels and pop a cork pipe in his mouth. “Excellent.” He ascended the stairs. “I am Major Rawlings.”
Recognition lit the magistrate’s eyes. “Rawlings you say?” He rubbed the wiry beard jutting from his chin. “Lord Coverstone if I’m not mistaken.”
Alex nodded in ascent.
“And how can I be of assistance, milord?”
Alex followed Mr. Reilly into the modest house. Cheery warmth dismissed the chill air creeping along the golden floorboards. A homier place Alex had likely never seen and an ache settled deep within him. Despite his eye-opening brush with death and new found desire to live a life of love and generosity, was he doomed to live out an existence as cold and lonely as this November morning? With effort he shook off the depressing thought and turned his attention to the pressing situation at hand.
“Last night my wife was attacked, abducted and held for ransom while on her way to a dinner party in London. I was able to get her back without paying ransom and before any harm came to her, but the criminals eluded my friend and me.”
The magistrate’s eyes widened behind the thick spectacles. “Quite a ways from London aren’t you?”
“My wife is the daughter of Lord Grayson. She preferred coming here as opposed to returning to London.”
“I see.” Mr. Reilly pulled off his spectacles and swiped a hand over his face. “What can you tell me about these men?”
“One man, Steven Johnston, I know personally, he actually served under me a few years back. The other man my wife named as John Halverson. Halverson was shot though I have no idea how severely.”
The magistrate took detailed descriptions of the men and events. “I’ll send out word of these men, but I can’t make any promises, my lord.”
“Understandable, sir, any help you can provide is much appreciated. If you’d be so kind as to keep this quiet. I’d hate to see Lady Coverstone’s name muddied in any way.”
“Of course, milord.” The older man smiled with assurance. “As soon as I hear anything you’ll be the first to know. Take care of your wife, and do send Lord and Lady Grayson my best.”
“I will.” Alex nodded, replacing his hat, and stepping through the door. For a moment he hesitated, warring with the knowledge he’d omitted so many key details from his report. He straightened his shoulders and strode down the creaky wooden stairs. No matter. The less said about Witherspoon the better. Alex could deal with the general. If the magistrate happened to deliver Johnston and Halverson it would be an added boon. Not to mention the means of confirming Alex’s suspicions that Witherspoon was in fact the mastermind behind Charlotte’s abduction.
He unhitched his horse, gathered the reins in his hand and prepared to mount. Alex paused, a trickle of unease slithering across the base of his neck, and glanced shrewdly over his shoulder.
Nothing.
He shook his head. Too much time at war made a man paranoid. Hell he served with men who slept with a cap and ball beneath their pillows. Perhaps this furlough would be good for him after all.
He mounted and steered the animal back down the deserted street. Uncomfortably Alex shifted, unable to shed the uncanny sense of being watched.
Impossible, he assured himself. No one knows you’re in England. A chill having nothing to do with the cold settled over him. Except, of course, General Witherspoon.
* * *
“Are you absolutely certain this water isn’t too hot, milady?”
Clouds of steam rolled from the oversize bronze tub in the bathing chamber adjacent to Charley’s bedroom. She raked a skeptical gaze from the tub to the bucket of cold water clutched ominously in the portly housekeeper’s hands. Even boiling water would not be enough to scourge the filth of the attack from her crawling skin. “The water is perfect, Mrs. Kent. Thank you.” The hotter the better.
“I don’t know.” The housekeeper raised a dubious brow, itchy fingers twitching along the bucket handle, obviously ready to dump the chilly contents into the tub. “You’re liable to scald yourself.”
Precisely the point. “Why don’t you leave the cold water on the floor by the bath and I can pour a little in myself if need be?” Charley strove for patience. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone with a blistering bath, the dour contemplation of her marriage, and the fact she had an enemy intent upon her demise.
Ever a worried mother hen, Mrs. Kent showed every sign of ignoring Charley’s wishes and cooling the bathwater anyway. Formality amongst the servants in the Grayson household was very relaxed, which was the way Charley liked it, but at times—such as this precise moment—the lack of servantly obedience grew wearisome.
Charley reached for the bucket, curling her fingers around the handle and giving a less than gentle tug. Water sloshed over the side of the bucket onto th
e floor, narrowly missing Mrs. Kent’s hem. Startled the older woman released the bucket and Charley swiftly carried it to the opposite side of the tub.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kent.” Charley smiled sweetly. “That will be all.” It took every ounce of willpower not to glance impatiently toward the door. If patience was a virtue then Charley was an entirely unvirtuous young woman.
“Very well, milady.” Mrs. Kent released a beleaguered sigh, and turned to exit the room. “Oh, and one more thing. What shall I do with your gown from last night?”
Charley spun, eyes falling to the tattered blue garment heaped on the floor where she’d eagerly discarded it just minutes before. She shuddered. Johnston’s dark, evil eyes flashed through her mind. She pulled the silken wrapper more tightly around her. “I say we burn it.”
Mrs. Kent’s gray eyes twinkled. “An excellent idea, my lady. Shall I prepare tea and scones as well?”
“The lemon butter scones?”
“But of course!”
“That sounds heavenly.” Charley’s stomach grumbled with the promise of the divine pastries. “We’ll make a regular party of it.”
“Good. That’ll cheer you up, milady. You’re far too melancholy for my liking. Why you used to turn this house upside down with trouble and always with a smile on your rosy face.” The older woman shook her head, a touch of wistfulness flitting across her face. “I miss those days.”
Charley’s impatience softened. As do I…
“What with you and Master Thomas grown up this place is far too quiet,” the housekeeper continued, prattling on in the singular way that was all her own.
Nostalgia assailed Charley so swiftly she swayed on her feet. Standing here in her bedchamber, amusedly impatient with the kindly Mrs. Kent, brought forth a multitude of memories—some pleasant… some miserable… all preferable to the current trend of her life. Charley could not quench a betraying, affectionate smile as Mrs. Kent rambled on and on about old times and childhood memories.
“What with Lord Coverstone back in the country I daresay there will be the pitter-patter of children’s feet on the floor’s of Grayson Hall err long.”
Reality crashed back around Charley with resounding finality. She was no longer Lady Charlotte, hellion daughter of the eccentric Earl. Instead she was Lady Coverstone, the epitome of the British aristocracy, and the envy of near every woman therein. Her stomach rolled. None of it was her. She wasn’t beautiful or demure or the picture of elegance and grace. She was Charley… the notorious hoyden, and her sole purpose in life was to provide children to a man who did not love her and planned to leave the moment she bore a son.
“La, listen to me blathering on like an old fool,” Mrs. Kent’s ever-cheery voice interrupted the dour train of her thoughts. “Enjoy your bath, take a nice nap, and we’ll have a bit of fun burning this dress when you’re through.” The housekeeper bustled toward the door, humming a ditty, the ruined blue gown bundled in her arms. “Call if you need anything else.”
Click.
Alone at last, Charley shirked the silken wrapper, ran a palm over the garish bruise of Johnston’s hand imprinted on her upper arm, and stuck a toe into the steamy bathwater. “Ow!” Intense heat shocked up her leg. She shivered involuntarily. Gritting her teeth, she plunged her foot into the water, submerging one leg up to the knee. She waited for the prickles needling her flesh to subside and put the other leg in, slowly lowering herself into the water. Mrs. Kent was right. The too hot water seemed to burn the top layer from her skin, but Charley didn’t care, all she wanted was to be clean. She surveyed the array of scented soaps, vigorously scrubbing the stench of the woods and those miserable men from her hair and skin.
An hour later Charley still sat in the tepid bathwater, fingers and toes wrinkled, feeling rather water logged and very down about the recent twist in her life.
I want to make a go of us. Give you and me, this marriage, a real chance… The words floated round and round in her mind, refusing to give her peace.
She wanted to believe him. He’d certainly sounded genuinely upset arguing with Sid by the stairs. A kernel of foolish hope budded within her. Ridden hard by his father and elder brothers, Alex had set out to prove himself, become a man in their eyes, and for years she’d clung to the hope Alex would shed the cunning exterior he’d donned and grow into the good, loving man she knew lurked beneath the surface, rediscover the sweet, shy boy she’d loved as a child. For just a little while in the woods and thereafter she’d believed he had changed for the better.
Sidney’s despicable accusation swept through her mind, hot on the heels of the question all but burning a hole in her brain… and heart.
Obviously he’d not changed. Thank the Lord for Sidney, he’d been her faithful friend for years, and knew her desire for a real marriage. Without Sid’s warning she’d no doubt have fallen quickly for Alex’s charms.
She rose from the tub and shivered, reaching for the fluffy red towel draped across the back of the chair. She dried off and slipped into the discarded silken wrapper. “I’m so tired,” she murmured. Perhaps everything would be clear after a good nap. She wandered into her room, running her hand along the dark trim as she had so many times as a child. Charley smiled. How comforting the simplest memories could be. She plucked a brush from the vanity and saw the ghastly cut in her forehead for the first time. She flipped a swatch of unruly wet curls over the gash and made a face in the mirror. At least her hair would be useful in concealing the injury.
Charley hated her hair. The frizzy too tight curls were impossible to manage, and the color of rust. Rust! Veronica Childers had made the comparison when they were but eleven years old. Charley lifted a mass of tangled locks, working the brush through the ends from the bottom up. Her hair was like everything else about her—a lady but not terribly ladylike… pretty but not terribly fashionable given her coloring… smart but not too intelligent… thin but too curvy in the hips and thighs to be a graceful swan the way women like Veronica were. A cruel spear of jealousy sliced through her. A man like Alex, godlike and resplendent in every way could never want anyone as ordinary as she.
Charley sighed.
Sidney’s words were true. Alex was home to satisfy Regina’s petition for an heir and nothing more. Her heart sank. The last thing she wanted in life was to be trapped in a loveless marriage and forever second in line to the woman who’d compared her to rust.
The small, decorative mahogany box perched on the corner of the vanity glared up at her, silently scolding her for years of neglect, the piece begged to be opened one last time. Charley knew she should leave the box be, let old memories lie, but… the silver latch winked in the sunlight.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Exasperated Charley slapped the silver handled brush onto the vanity top and reached for the jewelry box. She smoothed tentative fingers over the top of her most prized gift, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
Alex had brought this to her from Spain, a gift for her seventeenth birthday. She hadn’t seen him in the three years since he’d joined the army and when he’d walked through the front door to surprise her, the mere sight of him so blessedly sweet her heart could break, she’d known to the depths of her soul she loved him. True love. Not some girlish inclination or fantasy, but the brand of love that inspired bards to sing and angels to swoon.
Charley flipped the latch, gently lifting the lid. “Hello, old friend.” Ever so hesitantly she reached into the box, withdrawing the hand carved miniature knight. She suspected he’d crafted the piece himself though he’d never admit it.
“So I’ll always be here to rescue you,” Alex had said with a smile.
A small, fond smile tugged her lips. What had happened between them? Tragedy and arranged marriage withstanding. As children Alex had doted on her, treated her differently… special. But, after her seventeenth birthday everything had changed. He’d stopped writing her, begun calling her Charlotte instead of Charley. Ugh! She hated to be called Charlotte. Forever felt
scolded when she heard the name.
Lost in thought, Charley stood the knight on top of the box. However silly the notion may be, Alex’s miniature made her feel safe.
Quickly she braided her hair, closed the heavy velvet curtains, and threw herself onto the bed. A good nap would help to clear her head. A good nap and lemon butter scones. Charley burrowed beneath the heavy coverlet, arranging the fluffy pillows around her. She closed her eyes, waiting for exhaustion to claim her, but one last thought refused to give her peace...
Sidney had also mentioned something about General Witherspoon. What did the well-respected commander have to do with the dire twist of events? A chill crept over her. Certainly nothing good, and what did it have to do with someone paying to have her killed?
* * *
Charley started awake, not entirely certain what had disturbed her respite, and surprised she’d managed to sleep at all. Perhaps a bad dream? Or a loud noise? She blinked fervently, pulling her mind from the dregs of sleep. A sliver of afternoon light peaked through a crack in the deep blue curtains and slowly her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting within her room.
The bedclothes shifted and rustled beside her. Charley shot bolt upright, eyes honing in on the shadowed form of a man in her bed! Johnston’s devil black eyes glowed in her mind. “Who’s there?” Without waiting for an answer she swung a fat pillow at the intruder, making swift contact with the side of his head.
Light to Valhalla Page 8
